


Idea Session

by herrcolonel (presidentwarden)



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: Bad Ideas, District 13, F/F, Flirting, Gen, Hair Braiding, Humor, Insults, Propaganda, We've Got The Nukes: Pt. 1
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-22
Updated: 2015-01-22
Packaged: 2018-03-08 14:21:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3212336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/presidentwarden/pseuds/herrcolonel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some propaganda meetings go better than others, and it's usually directly dependent on the creativity of everybody present. Fortunately, Johanna's almost always got some ideas to offer, even if they're not necessarily good ones.</p><p>- - -<br/>Johanna rests her chin in her hands, patience dwindling. “At least someone thinks this stupid thing’s a good idea. Why don’t we just show them some actual important stuff? Everybody’s seen the bird a million times.”</p><p>Plutarch is quick to justify his plan. “No, no, it’s not about showing them the bird. It’s a reminder that District 13 is always here, always waiting. Even in the Capitol, our influence can’t be ignored. It’s all psychological.”</p><p>Johanna just sits through the rest of the Mockingjay symbolism talk, and during a moment of silence, mutters to herself something about showing the Capitol the bird, literally. Out of the corner of her eye, she notices a tiny smile from Coin, and bites her lip, concealing a smirk of her own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Idea Session

Slowly, bit by bit, Johanna is regaining every aspect of her old self.

Unfortunately, that means that her adherence to the carefully monitored schedules of District 13’s government has dropped to subpar levels. The remaining shreds of obedience she once possessed, drilled into her mind with such devastating insistence by her captors at the Capitol, are long gone, washed down the drain alongside the hair dye she used that morning. Now her short, spiky cut has shifted from plain dark hair to a stylishly disheveled mess, boasting streaks of color in a hue of maroon that she _knows_ is out of favor in Snow’s inner circle this year.

There’s something satisfying about co-opting and ruining Capitol fashions for her own use, but what’s even _more_ satisfying is shamelessly adopting the trends they hate.

However, despite the personal delight it’s brought her, the process of dyeing has made her late that morning. _Painfully_ late. By the time she struts into the strategy room occupied by District 13’s finest minds, half an hour of in-depth planning has elapsed. When the door swishes open and thuds shut to admit the wayward girl, some don’t even bother to glance away from the large screen that’s displaying a half-rendered computer image of something on fire. Others turn and stare, fixing her in the crosshairs of stern disapproval. Effie, in particular, catches her with a keen glare, headscarf knotted around her scalp in a bow, her bleached eyebrows arched to convey her distaste. Haymitch just gives Johanna a sympathetic nod, sadly nursing a glass of cola that’s clearly no substitute for his drink of choice.

Coin turns too, silver hair swishing a bit as she cranes her neck to take a look at the newest arrival. A polite reprimand rises to the tip of her tongue, but she bites it back upon realizing it’s Johanna. Patience must be allocated to Johanna at all times, and Coin, for once, has plenty to spare. So she just smiles, and pats the empty seat beside her, beckoning.

Johanna gets her ass into that chair _immediately._

When she’s gotten comfortable, with a lot of shifting around and crossing and uncrossing arms and legs, she starts tuning into Plutarch’s speechifying. He’s showing some prototypes of… something to do with the Mockingjay symbol. That stupid bird is everywhere by now. It’s catchier than anything the District 13 idea crew has come up with on their own, and although Coin wisely warns against completely saturating the market with propaganda, Plutarch doesn’t really stop. Not all the propos get aired -- there’s folders and files full of unused content, video shots of Katniss wandering around doing heroic things outdoors, District 13 scientists and researchers hard at work, Beetee patiently explaining weaponry to various soldiers in a way that flatters his work but doesn’t tell all his secrets. That’s always the trickiest balance: providing enough information to feed the curiosity and hope of the rebels in the Districts, while not giving away their entire plan to the Capitol. Coin has a good handle on that balance. Plutarch, not so much.

But all of this is apparently irrelevant because the more Johanna studies the screen, the more she’s convinced that this entire project is just Plutarch trying to figure out how to set that stupid bird on fire in a way that’ll look pretty enough to be published on Capitol TV. She squints at it, tilts her head this way and that, scans the background of the screen for files that might indicate a larger project. Nope. Nothing. Granted, it looks great, but that’s not enough. They got that out of that way in the first meeting. Content _and_ style. Never one without the other, always both in perfect synergy.

She glances to the side, stealing a glimpse at the lady in charge of this whole endeavor, and a fleeting thought flicks through Johanna’s brain that Coin is the _perfect_ example of that saying. But before her ideas can elapse into rapturous compliments of Panem’s loveliest president, Finnick, who’s parked himself in the chair on Johanna’s other side, nudges her and gently gestures to the screen. “Hey. What do you think?”

“What should I think? It’s a bird on fire. A little too literal, if you ask me. We gotta find a better metaphor. If Cinna hadn’t already set Katniss on fire, I’d suggest we do it again.”

The way Coin clears her throat reminds Johanna that she should probably stop talking. So she sits back in her chair and lets Effie take the floor, since when Effie speaks up, it’s hard to convince her to stop until she’s said her part. She sits back, arms folded, and doesn’t protest when she’s subjected to another of the trademark Effie glares, complete with a snippy tone of voice. “Shall I explain?”

Johanna yawns, a calculated move. “Yeah. Go for it.”

“Beetee has figured out how to interrupt Capitol channels on a repeating basis. We can set a particular image to reappear, say, every five minutes, or every half an hour, or every five seconds, if we want. It’s simply _brilliant.”_

Beetee, sitting at the head of the table, nods modestly at Effie’s flattery. She’s laying it on thick like she always does, trying to get in the good graces of everybody in District 13 who she thinks might have some value. Even now, outside the Capitol, her instinct to play the political game is hard to ignore. It’s what’s gotten her this far.

She continues, overlooking the fact that Johanna’s rolled her eyes twice already. “But we can’t re-air the same propos nonstop, so we need an image, a _symbol._ Something where everyone knows the meaning. The Mockingjay design was the obvious choice. Now we’re just deciding how best to present it.”

Johanna looks suspicious, but gives a small shrug with one shoulder. As far as she can tell, it’d be equally productive just to take a picture of the damn Mockingjay pin itself and project it on the channels, but before she can say so, Effie interrupts her thoughts. “It needs _flair._ _”_ And then, a metaphorical olive branch of peace, extended in an exaggerated whisper: “Love your hair!”

“Thanks.” Johanna scoots back in her chair, finding another new way to sit. These things are designed for style, not comfort -- a tactical error by the designer, considering that District 13 doesn’t get many visitors, much less those who’d possibly be impressed by modern furniture -- but there’s no point in replacing them now. “So what’ve we got?”

“This.” Plutarch has the remote this time, and sits back in his chair, swiveling to face the empty end of the table where he’s placed a TV screen. With a click of the remote, the image begins to play: a black screen at first, then a hint of fire licking at the center of the blackness, shaping itself into an image of the golden Mockingjay. Amid the swells of dramatic music, the bird’s wings shift, then shift again, metamorphosing into the form the designers have chosen for their newest interpretation of the Mockingjay symbol. Then it stops moving, but the flames continue, complete with sound effects for _that_ _,_ too.

Johanna is less than impressed.

“So how’s this gonna help?”

Plutarch stands up, and looks even more self-satisfied, having been granted an opportunity to explain his brilliant plan. “Every so often -- we’ll need to vary up the times, of course, so it doesn’t become _too_ predictable -- we have a few seconds of the Mockingjay clip air on Capitol TV, flickering in and out just when they least expect it. It’s very important that it moves, that there’s different phases and stages to it. Makes the viewers feel like they’re missing out on a hidden broadcast.” He presses the remote to play it again, gazing proudly at the shimmering symbol. “We think it’ll be very powerful.”

Johanna rests her chin in her hands, patience dwindling. “At least _someone_ thinks this stupid thing’s a good idea. Why don’t we just show them some actual important stuff? Everybody’s seen the bird a million times.”

Plutarch is quick to justify his plan. “No, no, it’s not about showing them the bird. It’s a reminder that District 13 is always here, always waiting. Even in the Capitol, our influence can’t be ignored. It’s all psychological.”

“Yeah, I never was real good at that whole manipulation thing.” On the surface, that’s an abject lie; Johanna manipulated her way through her first Games by playing the weakling, then emerged halfway through with a shockingly bloodthirsty will to win. But it’s partly true, in that she has no patience any longer for manipulation or esoteric strategy or subtle mind tricks. Smart tactical decisions, like the kind of thing Coin does -- she can get behind that. But not Plutarch’s method of pulling strings like a puppeteer.

In a way, he’s never stopped being the Head Gamemaker.

Johanna just sits through the rest of the Mockingjay symbolism talk, and during a moment of silence, mutters to herself something about showing the Capitol the bird, literally. Out of the corner of her eye, she notices a tiny smile from Coin, and bites her lip, concealing a smirk of her own.

Finally Plutarch sits down, heavyset frame settling into his chair, and runs a hand through his shock of graying hair. “We’ll commence trials of that next week in 3, 7, and 10’s channels. What’s next?”

At this point, Coin is just as grateful for a diversion as everyone else present. Finnick’s been silent through this whole thing, letting a sugar cube melt on his tongue (he’s gotten some on request from the District 13 food services; a _request,_ not a demand, since Coin is very particular about the distinction). Effie’s attention is flagging, and Haymitch is on his third can of soda, pouring it into the glass and swigging it down in a poor simulation of the real drinking experience. Now and then he stares daggers at Coin, resenting the no-alcohol policy.

The president is unfazed. She takes the opportunity and speaks up, gesturing to the monitor that rests precariously at the end of the table. “Cressida and her camera crew ventured outdoors with almost all of our Tributes yesterday. I believe the footage from this will be useful in a future propo. Good work, Cressida.” She graces the modest young director, who’s sitting in the corner, with a genuine smile. “I’m looking forward to the results.”

Johanna, who’d been invited along on the trip outdoors, slinks down in her seat. She’d spent most of the time inhaling lungfuls of fresh air, climbing trees, and cursing at anyone who asked her for an impromptu interview. But when the screen lights up again, she takes a breath of relief. Cressida’s sorted all the footage into folders by Tribute name, and Johanna Mason is not listed. At most, she’ll be a background character. Not that she doesn’t want to be in the propos, she _does_ (as an extra level of fuck-you to Snow), but that’s a project for another time. She’s still at the point of wanting to enjoy a carefree day outdoors without being reminded that the Capitol will be watching.

So as the lights dim and the footage starts, a series of clips of Finnick alone and then with others, talking about his experiences and his hopes for the future and all that crap, Johanna leans back and elbows him in the ribs. “Nice one.”

Finnick grins cheekily. “I’m just glad I remembered some of my notes.”

“They let you have _notes_ _?_ They wanted to chase me up a tree and ask me about my survival tactics!” Johanna is outraged just for a moment, but settles back again at the touch of a small, cold hand on her wrist. It’s Coin, it has to be, so before she can pull away, Johanna takes hold of her hand for a moment.

It’s fortunate that Finnick’s attention has returned to the propo footage.

After a minute, Coin moves her hand to let go, reaching for her pen, and jots something on her notepad, leaning back towards the table. Her hair swishes again, falling loosely across her shoulders, and Johanna admires her in profile for a split second until Coin turns to face the video screen again. Just on instinct, Johanna reaches out and plays with a strand of that silver hair, smoothing it down back into place once a second has passed.

No one notices but Coin, who settles comfortably in her chair, leaning back on purpose.

It’s not quite an open invitation, but Johanna’s learned to read the president’s body language well enough to understand what is and isn’t acceptable based on her cues. Everything about Coin sends a message, every action is intentional. Johanna can’t help but admire that kind of self control.

So she takes her up on the unspoken offer, gathering the long, neat strands into three loosely defined groups, just running her fingers through Coin’s hair at first and occasionally brushing against her neck. She gives the barest shiver, and Johanna likes it. It’s a little while before she starts braiding, but Cressida has at least five minutes of video clips to share, so Johanna takes her time, leisurely crossing one section of fine gray hair over another to form an imperfect braid. She’s not as good at braiding as she could be, but she always does at least an adequate job; it’s one of many semi-pointless skills she’s picked up over the years. When she’s reached the end of the braid, she lets go and slowly traces her fingers down the side of Coin’s neck, admiring her ears and jawline and everything that’s normally hidden by that hairstyle. She’s got a modified communicator headset tucked around one ear, her simpler alternative to the communicuff that she owns but rarely wears. Only during times of emergency does she bother with the wrist cuff, mostly for its semi-useful screen. Otherwise it’s always the headset, which has the benefit of convenience but the downside of making it seem like Coin talks to herself an awful lot.

There’s no point in wearing it now, though, considering that almost everybody of any importance to Coin is here in this room, and any minor emergencies can be handled by competent District 13 military and staff -- a fact that she’s had to repeatedly clarify to every new refugee. Ever since Coin got an emergency call in the middle of the night on her personal line because a District 1 fugitive wasn’t used to single-ply toilet paper, her patience for unwanted calls has been minimal, to say the least. So Johanna sees no reason not to reach up and gently unhook the communicator from around the curve of her ear, setting it beside Coin’s pen and notepad on the table.

Again, there’s a tiny shiver. Either Johanna’s hands are cold, or Coin is enjoying this.

The end of the footage brings their interaction to a halt as well, both turning in their chairs to face the center of the table again as the group bestows praise on Cressida for the poignant recollections she’s captured. When Cressida modestly accepts the compliments and thanks the various Tributes, she does, surprisingly, include Johanna in the list, and even -- astonishingly -- makes an offer for her to join the group again sometime, on her own terms. With the pattern of inked vines along her scalp and her fierce mane of blond locks, Cressida always manages to look fearsome despite her petite size, but when she looks at Johanna there’s nothing but good intentions. “I’m hoping we’ll able to use you in one of these soon.”

“Yeah, that’d be great, but I’m not really a ‘sit in a tree and talk about my memories’ sorta person. Just give me one opportunity to get on camera and yell at Snow, and I’ll be happy. I don’t even care if you use it in the propos. That’s up to you.” Johanna briefly seems magnanimous, but the effect doesn’t last. “Hey, if you need someone to help you come up with catchy taglines, I could probably do that. I’m pretty good at spitting out stuff that gets the Capitol’s attention.”

Finnick gently ribs her, memories of the Flickerman interview floating through his mind. “Can’t imagine why any of us would think _that._ _”_

“No, really, lemme try.” For once today, Johanna has a real grin. She holds up her hands, as though framing a quote. “Okay, how about this: ‘District 13: We’ve Got The Nukes!’ It’s catchy, and it’s a great reminder to the Capitol that we could probably vaporize ‘em. Whaddaya say?”

Coin stifles a smile. “I somehow doubt they’ve forgotten.”

“Yeah, but the citizens have the attention span of inbred gerbils.” Johanna sits forward in her chair, actually engaged in the meeting for the first time. “Okay, what about ‘District 13: Panem’s Most Wanted!’ Makes us sound like some kind of reality show, and isn’t everyone in the Capitol obsessed with those? Plus, it adds intrigue!”

Effie has a retort on the tip of her tongue about the reality shows, but then remembers that she’d been pining yesterday about the lack of three of her former favorite programs. So she shuts up and listens.

“Or if we’re going for a more sympathetic angle, ‘District 13: Leading the Nation in Vitamin D Shortages.’” She grins broadly; it’s true. Everyone in the room looks healthy enough, but there’s a certain sort of paleness that’d be highly unfashionable in the Capitol. “Sort of implies that we’ve got everything _but_ sunlight, when you think about it.”

Plutarch speaks up. “Okay, we really can’t use that one, but the first two aren’t bad. Keep going.”

Johanna is downright astonished, and wonders for a minute if she’s just being humored, but Plutarch is chronically incapable of lying convincingly (at least to her, if not to Snow), so she takes it at face value. “Alright, fine.” She glances out of the corner of her eye at Coin, looking lovely with her hair plaited and a serene expression on her face. She’s sitting still in her chair, but in a natural sort of pose, a far cry from Snow’s restrained but obvious posturing on his white propaganda throne. The effect’s very appealing. “How ‘bout this one?” Her grin is downright _wicked._ “‘District 13: Our President is Hotter than Yours.’”

Haymitch almost chokes on his soda, spluttering.

Effie sympathetically pats him on the back. “Johanna, dear, please. We don’t want to incite another bombing.”

“Nothing wrong with telling the truth.” And although Coin’s choosing to politely decline to comment, and Beetee is paying no attention at all, and Finnick is biting his lip to keep silent, and Plutarch is pretending not to have heard -- a disappointing outcome all around -- Johanna grins widely and sits back in her chair, draping her arms over the armrests and leveraging herself in the seat to take advantage of the thinly padded cushion. Sitting in the same spot for too long is starting to get uncomfortable. “Just something to think about.”

Effie can only muster another sentence. “Yes, I do suppose it’s that.”

Johanna glances over at Coin, hoping for a returned look, but the most she gets is a light tapping of Coin’s pen on the table as she waits for the room’s equilibrium to return. Finally she addresses the matter, tactful but straightforward. “I doubt we can use those particular slogans, Johanna, and you know exactly why. However, there’s certainly some value to each of them.”

“And it _could_ be a smart idea to compare Presidents Coin and Snow in one of our propos.” Cressida’s voice resonates from the corner again, commanding their attention for a minute. She's always had a talent for turning strange ideas into successes. “It might help remind the Districts that there are some better alternatives to the dictatorship.”

Johanna finds herself reaching for the loosely plaited end of Coin’s braid, untangling the strands all the way back up to the nape of her neck and letting the locks fall naturally around her shoulders again. Coin shrugs a little, looking glamorous, and lets Johanna admire her for a minute. Which she does, shamelessly. “Better alternatives, huh? You’re telling me.”

Plutarch looks straight at Cressida, trying to make the best of the situation. Unlike Coin, who seems pleasantly unfazed right now, he’s visibly uncomfortable. Johanna tends to have that effect. “Make it happen, but do a series with the tributes’ recollections first. We’ll need to plan this first, to manage the presidential comparison well enough.” Which probably includes keeping Johanna two hundred miles away from the project at all times.

Maybe she can find a way to meddle in it anyway.

Soon after this, they’ve finished the agenda and disperse the meeting, much to everyone’s joy. Beetee, despite being wheelchair-bound, is the quickest to exit, a clipboard full of graph paper and jotted ideas resting in his lap as he makes his way back to the lab. Effie practically runs out, escorting Haymitch, who still looks vaguely ill from alcohol withdrawal and/or prolonged exposure to Johanna. Finnick saunters out, feeding his own sugar habit one sweet cube at a time, and Cressida and Plutarch follow, the latter hauling the TV screen along and trailing several cords behind him.

Johanna follows Coin out, but is stopped by a small but firm hand on her shoulder, steely gray eyes making direct contact with hers as the president blocks her path. “Don’t do that.”

“What? It’s true. _Really_ true.” She’s expected that she’ll need to justify herself, but not to the target of her affections, so she stutters for an answer for a lot longer than she’d like to. “Snow’s a creep. You’re beautiful. End of story. You also have the benefit of not being a complete torturing despot. So, you know, half and half. Looks and personality.”

“Johanna, promoting me like a celebrity would backfire terribly. I’m certain of it.”

“Yeah, no, it’s not quite that. It’s not like you’re in a real contest with that old bastard. You’re gonna take charge. Snow’s gotta go.” An idea strikes Johanna. “That’s not bad. It rhymes. 'President Snow has got to go'-- nah, that’s not the right amount of syllables. What’s his first name again? Cory? Something like that. ‘Cory Snow has got to go.’ Teach _that_ rhyme to the little kids.”

Coin’s eyebrows lift higher. “His name is Coriolanus, I believe. You’d probably be shot for calling him anything else.”  

“What do I care?” Johanna laughed outright at the suggestion. “Can’t touch me now that I’m here. Anyway, what kind of sick fuck names their kid Coriolanus? How’d he even survive preschool with that name?”

“You know what Capitol fashions can be. He was named after a general who was exiled from Rome, then marched on it with an army. ” But Coin can’t help but agree. Her own name is Latin as well, the feminine form of an adjective meaning ‘kind’ -- a description that some would probably dispute. Nevertheless, District naming customs, especially in 13, are nothing close to the extravagance practiced by the Capitol. Rather than expound at length upon the original Coriolanus’s historical role -- and she feels a lecture coming on -- she gestures for the door, since she knows Johanna’s interest in esoteric Roman history is next to nil.

But Johanna isn’t satisfied. “So that’s why you don’t like that slogan, ‘cause you don’t want to be compared to Snow like that?”

“Yes, essentially.”

“Not ‘cause you don’t like me calling you hot, or something?”

 _“Johanna._ _”_ Coin hisses through gritted teeth. “Let’s discuss this elsewhere.”

“Like your room?”

“You don’t even know where my quarters are in the base.”

“Good point.” Johanna grins, a sly look. “But the minute you tell me, I’m gonna come visit.”

“That’s what I was afraid of.” Coin practically pushes her out of the room, leaning back in to pull the door shut and hearing it lock with a satisfying click. Johanna pouts, but struts forward, hands in her pockets. The others have dispersed already, but they may as well walk together towards the stairs. Besides, Johanna’s liking this kind of bantering. So is Coin. “But, for once, I think I agree with Effie. Your hair looks very nice.”

“You think so? Thanks. Did it myself.” Johanna runs her fingers through it, tousling the dark locks and reddish streaks. “It’s better than that crap the Capitol put me in. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a shittier wig. And it was _blond._ _”_ That, to her, is the final insult. It’s disquieting, somehow, to have had them portraying her that way. She can’t place why, but there’s something historically wrong about it. “I guess I ought to thank you and your guys again for getting my ass out of there in the first place. Nice to be here.”

“It’s good to have you with us.” Coin is the very picture of tact, looking as graceful as ever even while reattaching the communication headpiece to her ear. “And with me.”

Johanna’s eyes widen, just on instinct. Coin isn’t usually very prone to acknowledging that sort of thing. At all.

And of course, she doesn’t let the moment last too long. A hand on Johanna’s shoulder guides her to the correct staircase, while Coin herself strides towards the command center to check in with Boggs and her various lieutenants, footfalls from her small boots on the concrete floor echoing through the hallway’s cavernous interior. “I’ll see you later, Johanna."

Johanna ascends up the staircase in a state of slightly dazed delight.

**Author's Note:**

> The animated Mockingjay symbol they're discussing: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NMcoB_yceOg  
> I tend to headcanon all Mockingjay and HG promotional materials to exist in-universe. It's a nice extra touch.


End file.
